


As a tide acts upon cliffs

by witheredsong



Category: American Actor RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-10-06 14:59:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10337162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witheredsong/pseuds/witheredsong
Summary: He takes a deep breath, and says, “Now I have to forget him”.





	

Chris remembers the moment it happened. Crystal clear. What a clichéd thing to say – crystal clear, but in this instance it is an exact metaphor – time sharpened, one moment of clarity in the hideous performance that his life is, and his craft often can be. And even if hadn’t been so, Scott and his mother bore witness, would have been there to remind him of those handful of minutes in which his world turned upside down, and he had to re-evaluate everything he knew about himself, at an age when he thought he knew himself fairly well, even if the world baffled him at every turn.

In his mother’s house in Sudbury, where he has escaped to try and put himself together back again, in his own bedroom, the window looking out to the familiar grey blue cold, ice on the ground, the urge to cry is overwhelming for a moment. He pulls the duvet up over his head, and breathes in deep, the dark heat permeated with his cologne and his mother’s laundry detergent, and the blind panic passes for moment. He has always championed Scott, since the moment he saw his baby brother kiss Jake, their neighbour’s son, half-hidden near the hedge that separated their properties, frantic and sad. Fourteen years old, and looking as if the world had ended when Chris stumbled upon them. Teenagers are not prone to introspection much, but in that moment Chris had known he would smash the face of anyone that dared to hurt his brother, that dared to take away his brother’s choice and freedom to love by calling it unnatural. In that moment, he had loved Scott so much; his heart still feels sore at the memory nearly a decade and a half later.

He had always looked at girls – bright, intelligent ones, ones that intimidated him a bit because of their smarts, sharp-tongued, bright, bird-like in his arms, heating his blood with their demure sundresses and brown hair, and soft bare shoulders. He looks at men, in a profession where he is surrounded by incredibly good-looking people, it is hard not to look and appreciate. He has hugged men, sometimes kissed men, hurried blow jobs and hand-jobs too, when he was younger and experimenting, trying so hard to fit in – always friendly, but never with intent, never thinking, “Oh!” startled by his body’s awakening, and his heart’s longing. And so, what has been easy to love and champion in Scott, has blindsided him in himself. It seems the world cracked and then reformed itself in a pattern Chris will have to learn all over again how to decipher. The frustrated tears are close, and the tightness in his chest means he is going to have a panic attack in his own home, away from the flickering, singeing flames of his stardom. 

He is all but drowning in it, when another body slips into the bed, yanks down the duvet, and strong, loving hands frame his face. Someone else is running soothing hands on his chest, and he dimly hears his mother saying, “Chris, oh my god! Listen to me, slow down your breaths to match mine, okay baby? One in, two out...yes, like that, just like that”, she croons, as his heart stops the tumult in his chest, the gray spots disappear slowly from his vision. When he opens his eyes, his mother is bent over him, unshed tears bright in her eyes, but mouth a firm line – she takes a bottle of water from someone, He turns his head, and there’s Scott, fear and upset all over his face. “Scott”, his mother orders, “Help him to sit up, slowly! Put the pillows behind his back”, and his brother helps him move, as his mother opens the bottle, and holds it to his lips, “Tiny sips, okay baby?”, and he can see the shake in her fingers, minute, controlled, but still there. He put it there, and he feels ashamed, exhausted.

As he gets his bearing back, sitting up in bed, white sheets and pillows, blue duvet faded from years of use, his mother looking at him, considering, his brother still half-behind half-beside him, holding up a bit of his weight, he thinks of what his announcement will do to two of the people he loves most in the world. His mother, sensing the restlessness in him, puts a considering, warm palm on his ankle, rubs her fingers over the arch of his foot – a thoughtless caress, one that he has often missed when far away from her, playing superheroes, and feeling the weight of the expectations crush him. She asks softly, “So what brought this on, darling?”, so soft, careful not to spook him, “I thought filming was done, and the press tour is not until seven months from now?!” He thinks of evading the truth, but he can’t, he has to be honest, at least to himself. He looks up then, makes himself look his mother and his brother in the eyes, and says, “I am in love. Was in love. With a man.” And feels the words settle in the air, in his own heart, as if engraved in stone. His mother startles, and his brother draws in a quick, hurt breath. No one speaks for a minute, two, and then his brother’s hand settle on his nape, a warm, grounding weight, “Oh Chris”, he sighs, as weary as Chris feels, “Only you would know how to make your life more difficult. It’s Sebastian, isn’t it?”

His mother lifts a hand, cups his cheek, and he presses into it. Her thumbs brush beneath his eyes, and come back wet with his tears, which have been falling unnoticed from his eyes. He takes a deep breath, and says, “Now I have to forget him”.

\--------------------------------------------------

Chris remembers his first impression of Sebastian – shock of thick dark hair, sweet face, beautiful blue eyes, ever-changing and intelligent, a mouth that explained why about 70% of his roles had so far been troubled gay characters. But that was not all, was it – coltishly sweetly handsome men who looked years younger than their age were a dime a dozen in Hollywood. Something set Sebastian apart from that brood. That first day of auditions, Chris tired and bored out of his mind, a parade of face, unknown and half-known, no one quite the right fit for Bucky Barnes, not quite getting the right balance of charm, sweetness and moral goodness that characterized Captain America’s best friend and companion. He had been ready to give up, on the verge of requesting Feige and the Russos to schedule another day of rehearsals, when Sebastian came in. 

Chris had known of Sebastian – it was impossible to have sisters and not know about Sebastian Stan, gorgeous, heartbreaking star of _Gossip Girls_ , of the short-lived but glorious _Kings_. He also knew Sebastian had auditioned unsuccessfully for Captain America, and felt uneasy, troubled by the knowledge. And yet, Sebastian in the same room, mouth curving in the sweetest, most unrehearsed lovely smile Chris had seen in years, it had calmed some of the anxiety he always carried with him. Something about Sebastian, in a crisp white Oxford and khakis, unstyled hair parted on the right, falling in waves around that heart-shaped face with its incongruously stubborn chin, eased the tension and frustration in the room. For the next four hours, as Sebastian performed minor miracles of acting acrobatics, putting on a pitch perfect Brooklyn accent, going from playful and teasing to serious and then utter blankness, made Chris euphoric, the joy of watching their shared craft being practiced with such masterful excellence made him proud of his chosen vocation.

And so – he might have fallen for Sebastian, Seb, within a mere fifteen minutes of seeing him for the first time in person, but it took almost 8 months of filming together to make him realize what had happened. They met again before filming, of course they did - for rehearsals and costume fittings, and with agents, publicists, execs in the same room to figure out months of promotion, press-tours and comic-con appearances and interviews together, and Chris had known this was going to happen, but it didn’t make the anxiety any less. All through the days that followed, the itch beneath his skin, the nervous pit in his stomach that hollowed him inside out, grew and grew. And yet, in hindsight, he knows, he knows, that something had happened when he had met Sebastian’s eyes that first time. Even through his shyness, his own nervousness at being the part of such a big franchise, Sebastian carried within himself a kind of serene certitude, a faith in his own ability as a performer that calmed Chris down whenever they were together. Or it may have been the fact that when Chris shook Seb’s hand that first time, months after the audition, but during the rehearsals, his broad, capable hands, a man’s hands somehow at odds with the boyish loveliness, a perfect equal match to Chris, and Chris said, “So I hear you are my best friend through decades and decades!”, a small joke, a casual breaking the ice, Sebastian’s lovely eyes, brighter and bluer than his, widened for a second as if shocked at his touch, his voice. For a second only, then his lips curled into a smile of such sweetness that Chris had felt completely unmoored, as Sebastian had murmured, “Worlds and worlds, Mr. Evans”, and the moment broke. Chris had laughed out loud, tipping his head up, and said, “Besties forever, Mr. Stan? But then you must call me Chris, I insist”.

It was that, just that, and everything was so easy with him and Sebastian, so easy, that he had fallen before he noticed.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

What does one do with love, especially one that is un-returned, or returned to a lesser degree? Chris remembers Carly reading “Wuthering Heights” for one of her undergrad English courses, and getting angrier and angrier as the novel progressed. They are all, all four them, deeply passionate, intensely emotional people, a trait borne of their Italian-Irish heritage, and this compounded by Chris’s empathetic nature, is the cause of much of his problems with the publicly performative aspect of his career. He feels too much, and it tends to overwhelm him. Carly on the other hand channels her emotions into active concern, her urge to help, her passion for teaching, and she is the closest to him of his siblings, because they are mirror images, she the steadfast brightness to his quicksilver mercurial glamour. So she gets more and more upset, and he watches her pace the room like a caged bird, highlighter tucked into her ear, muttering to herself, and he feels a laugh building in his throat. 

With the intuitive knowledge that siblings seem to possess about when they’re being mocked, she rounds on him, hands on hip, crazed look in her eyes, and says, “And what are you laughing about, idiot?” He controls the curl of his smile and says, “Why has Emily Bronte upped your levels of insane, Carly? Or is it college?” She throws the highlighter pen at him, holding back the force at the last moment, so that it merely hits his shoulder and drops to the floor, and then rolls behind the sofa. She drops to the carpet, and tries to peer behind his legs, and when she cannot find it, curses a blue streak, then sits up, resting her shoulders against his knees. He cards through her hair, and she says, soft, “Why can’t Heathcliff get over her? I mean, he always feels he is more loving than loved, and Chris, this fucking novel. I can’t bear it, how there’s always someone who loves more, loves with greater recklessness than the other. And that is the tragedy, right? Cathy knows that her love for him won’t change, but Heathcliff will never understand that, will never have the sureness of that belief. My heart can’t take it.” By the end of her murmured conversation, he had a stinging hotness in his eyes, and she had surreptitiously wiped her eyes on his shorts.

Sebastian is easy to love and he seems to like Chris in return – wide beautiful eyes, and small crooked-sweet smiles, and always, always in perfect sync with him. As they do a complicated dance of being friends/acquaintances and co-workers pretending to be closer than brothers, nearer than lovers as Steve and Bucky, Chris feels the pull in his chest getting stronger, and he orbits Sebastian, affection, protectiveness, friendship mixing to create a volatile surge of emotions in him. Sebastian, does he see, does he guess, at the way Chris always stands a shade closer, leans towards Seb like a flower to the rain, the urge to touch, to talk to Seb that makes Chris want to be around him constantly? Chris doesn’t know, and Seb, for all his extended acting resume in kissing boys, seems resolutely heterosexual in his personal life. So Chris reigns himself in, keeps a close watch on his heart, hopes to avoid more grievous injury that would result if he gave in to Seb’s gravity.  


This has to come to a conclusion. After all, Chris has braced for the devastation of this self-created tragedy for months now.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

They are at the wrap party of their film, and Feige has left no stones un-turned in making the occasion into a grand celebration. Cast and crew are milling around Whedon’s lovely Spanish style bungalow. Chris keeps having flashes to the B&W versions of the rooms he walks through, and then remembers Joss shot “Much Ado” in this house. And while it is wonderful to see people he cares for, and loves working with enjoying themselves, the laughter and conversation and casual warmth is also bittersweet, because he aches at the thought that this is the beginning of missing them too. 

He takes the steps down to the garden, where the trees are hung sparsely with fairy-lanterns, creating deep pools of shadows and soft light. He needs a few moments to breathe, paste on the smiling mask that has been slipping through the night, too many people, too many good-byes, too many parting embraces. He slips into the darkest shade, behind an old tree, and leans with his forehead resting against the rough bark. He breathes in and out, and the cicadas chirping hide the inhales in the lonely garden.  
Seb is here tonight, hair back to regulation length, wearing a dark blue t-shirt and jeans, radiant and healthy and lovely. He has brought his girl-friend with him, and Chris likes Margarita so much, he cannot even be mad. She is sharp and wry and sophisticated, and Seb is completely enamoured, holding her bird-like fragile beauty in his arms, bending low to listen to her speak, while she puts her arms around his neck, sure of her welcome, possessive and protective of him all at once. They make a lovely pair, like a chiaroscuro painting, speaking in low staccato Russian, dancing with innate grace, lost in each other. She is good for Seb. Chris, when he first saw them, after that initial shock of clawing jealousy, had to smile. He loves Sebastian, and that means he loves Sebastian’s happiness. Sebastian has no clue of Chris’s tangleweed of emotions for him, and Sebastian deserves all the joy in this world.

That doesn’t mean Chris hurts any less. He thinks of Carly and her anger and compassion for someone who would always love more. He misses Boston; he needs to find the stillness at his core, his roots. He is gathering up the courage to go back in, say goodbye, and go home, when a cool hand falls on his nape. The perfume of cedar and sandalwood, and something indefinably, uniquely Seb, his warmth and solidity behind Chris, and Chris almost smiles. Of course. He cannot run, he has to face his weakness and despair and smile through heartbreak, before he will be allowed his tragic exit. “Hey”, Seb says, “I didn’t see you inside, and gathered you were taking a breather”. His breath puffs against Chris’s throat, and Chris shivers. Seb still hasn’t removed his hand from Chris’s shoulder, finger-tips rubbing in a soothing circle. Chris turns around, puts on his public smile. Breathes out, “Yeah, yes, I mean.... Too much going on inside, you know me! I needed to escape the crowd for a few seconds.” Seb’s lips curl in a teasing pout, his face in half shadows, standing near Chris with those luminous laughing eyes, and Chris draws in a breath, the enormity of the loss of Seb, whom he never got to have anyway, hitting him like a wave. 

Seb must see something in his face, even in the enveloping dusk, and his voice is filled with concern, “Chris? What’s wrong? Is everything okay at home? Do you need me to call someone?” Chris fights the impulse to lean on Seb’s shoulders, rest for a minute before he inevitably shatters and has to remake himself. Seb makes this easy, when he pulls Chris into his embrace, and Chris’s fingers clench at the thin cloth of Seb’s shirt, as his eyes fill with tears. He closes them tightly so the drops don’t escape and fall on Seb, who is holding him with so much care, that if this is the only time Chris let’s himself have this, it would be enough. Seb’s right hand is buried in Chris’s hair, and his left hand draws Chris in to him, his warmth a shelter and refuge. The temptation to never let go is overwhelming, but Chris moves away, says through the lump in his throat, “I am so bad with good-byes, Seb. I’ll miss you”, and his voice cracks, but he soldiers on, “And the others. So very much.” 

Seb seems near tears himself, but smiles tremulously, “You are a sap and a total meatball, Chris. It’s not like we are going to be parted forever. I’ll see you soon, won’t I”, and his voice lilts in a question, and Chris finds an answering smile through his tears, breathes, “Of course”, but he knows this is an ending. Whenever they meet next, they are going to begin again. Chris has to let go of his heartache, find a place for Seb as a dear friend, rather than want him as his home and his heart, his north-star. Seb leans up to kiss his cheek, but Chris is busy wiping his eyes, and the kiss lands off-centre, on his lips, accidental silken taste of the crispness of gin and tanginess of oranges, and Seb’s mouth trembles against his, presses for a moment, moves away. Chris suddenly feels calm, like he hasn’t all day, touches Seb’s face with his fingertips, feeling the heat in scruffy cheeks blushing rose in embarrassment, a quick caress. Leaves him standing there, moves towards the light of Joss’s house spilling with laughter and music, to his other farewells.

\------------------------------------------------------

And so Chris returns to Boston, and immerses himself in the routines of his daily life. There is his apartment to be sorted, and there is the search for a second script that he might direct, and there is his puppy, whose uncomplicated affection for Chris is overwhelming. Chris cries, and is mercilessly teased by Scott when East immediately jumps into his arms when he goes to his mother’s house to pick him up. And in the rough-housing tumble between two overgrown boys and an overgrown pup, on their mother’s living room carpet, while she threatens to banish them to the garden, the wounded knot in Chris’s heart eases up, just a little, and he thinks, for the first time, since leaving Seb behind in the grove of orange trees at the party, that he might get over this.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Thornton Wider - "The knowledge that she would never be loved in return acted upon her ideas as a tide acts upon cliffs."  
> ― The Bridge of San Luis Rey


End file.
